


We Fall Down

by Brightbear



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:27:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27024286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brightbear/pseuds/Brightbear
Summary: The first occasion on which Hercule Poirot came face to face with Charles was at a bridge table.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8
Collections: New Year's Resolutions 2020





	We Fall Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



> Ending Spoilers for "Murder in 3 Acts".

The first occasion on which Hercule Poirot came face to face with Charles was at a bridge table. Poirot’s bridge partner was Mrs Updike, who was quick witted but newly married and barely out of her teens. Their opponents were the young Mr Updike (still looking dazed but grateful from the recent honeymoon) and the handsome American with a natural charm whose name was Charles Cartwright. Charles was a moderately talented bridge tactician but an imaginative entertainer which distracted the normally sharp intellect of Mrs Updike. Any distraction in Mr Updike’s play was soundly compensated for. Charles regaled the table with yet another tale of an adrenaline-fueled duel of racing cars at the track. He held his listeners (mostly Mr and Mrs Updike) in the palm of his hand, their breath trembling as if they were witnessing the race itself and not just listening to a re-telling.

Poirot listened, watching the way Charles’ fingers caressed the cards with one hand as the other sallied forth to illustrate his point. Poirot played his cards exactly as he intended. Somehow the climax of Charles’ stories always reached a crescendo just as Mrs Updike was about to play a card from her hand. In one round, she had even paused with her chosen card forgotten and dangling from her fingers as she listened with rapt attention. Poirot cleared his throat pointedly to break the spell. The forgotten card was played hurriedly with a bashful look in Poirot’s direction.

After Poirot and Mrs Updike had been defeated at cards, Poirot made sure to congratulate Charles on a game most well played. Charles had smiled widely at Poirot.  
“I feel your skill at cards is far superior to mine,” said Charles graciously. “I’m sure if we played again, I would not be so lucky.”  
“It is kind of you to suggest so,” said Poirot demurely. “You have a gift of… a twist of phrase? No, a turn of phrase, no?”  
“I have had some modest success treading the boards,” admitted Charles. “And I have hopes of more to come in the future.”  
“I wish you the best of luck,” said Poirot. “But I think you have something to ask me, non?”  
Charles smiled widely with perfect teeth and dipped his head in acknowledgement. “There is an upcoming play and I have high hopes of catching the part of a detective. It might be a small role, but I believe in beginning with the details. I confess our host informed me you were a police detective before you came to England. You might just be the man to help me study for the part. Say, perhaps, over dinner at the Ritz? My treat, of course.”  
“This is a most amusing invitation,” agreed Poirot. “And might prove most diverting. Very well. I accept.”

***

Charles Cartwright and Poirot met for dinner at the Ritz almost every week for years. While Charles was not quite Poirot’s intellectual equal, he had a charm and force of personality which Poirot found most enjoyable to witness. Charles did not win the hoped-for part of the detective in the play, instead being offered the position of the lead character. Poirot applauded heartily from the audience and dutifully attended his friend’s plays. Eventually, Charles (now Sir Charles Cartwright) was being offered roles far from London and was travelling all around Europe and to America.

All the while Poirot was carefully building a reputation as a private and discreet detective. He exercised his little grey cells and found a great deal of satisfaction in his friendship with Arthur Hastings, who had become his preferred dining companion. Arthur Hastings also loved race cars. He did not have Charles’ flair, but he had the same imagination. He was a quieter, more steady presence that buoyed Poirot’s spirits.

Charles did send Poirot a letter inviting him to attend a performance in America. Poirot was forced to decline as he and Hastings were in the process of completing a complicated investigation into a string of brutal jewellery robberies. Poirot sent an apologetic response, and they started a brief correspondence, but Charles had always been more interested in an audience he could see. The letters tailed off and Poirot had no shortage of work to occupy himself.

* * *

It was almost a decade later when Charles returned to settle down in Cornwall. He invited Poirot down from London to visit. Poirot accepted as he currently had no case and still remembered his friend fondly. Poirot’s professional reputation was well known in society and he was happy with his success. However, Arthur Hastings had recently married and moved to Argentina. Hastings sent regular correspondence, but Poirot’s apartment and his life was quieter without the constant visits. Poirot could not deny the solitude that was creeping into his life.

A trip to visit an old friend and to be charmed by Charles’ company might be just what was required to lift Poirot’s spirits. Poirot was not disappointed. Charles was still quite the entertainer and invited a provocative cast of characters to dinner and cocktails. The guests including old friends, fashionable society, a talented playwright, and the local reverend and his wife. Still in quiet moments, Poirot observed there was something sad about the edges of Charles’ expression. Charles covered it quickly, especially when faced with the young and beautiful woman with the strangest of nicknames – Egg. He hovered around Egg like a humming bee to a wildflower.

Poirot sipped his cocktail as he debated with himself whether to broach the topic of this uncharacteristic sadness with his friend. It was several years since they had seen each other last and perhaps it would be better to wait and watch. These musings were lost to Poirot when the Reverend Babbage dropped his cocktail glass and collapsed dead on the carpet. Poirot had witnessed death before and the Reverend’s death was sad but not particularly unusual. It was with some surprise then that Poirot received Charles’ insistent claim that the Reverend had been murdered. Poirot did his best to dampen Charles’ theatrical near-paranoia, but he assured Charles that this was likely simply a heart attack of unpleasant timing. He would later regret his words in more ways than one.

* * *

It was only after many months of investigation and two more deaths that Poirot was able to unmask the poisoner. He had forced himself to consider all the suspects, no matter how dear to his own heart. Only one made sense. Only one had the motive and the opportunity and the skill to pull it off. Poirot gathered the suspects together before a theatre stage – a stage where Poirot had witnessed Charles’ brilliance on more than one occasion.

He detailed for all present how the real target of the poisoner had been the second victim – a psychiatrist who had been the best man at Charles’ wedding. Charles’ wife had long ago descended into madness and been transferred to an institution. The former best man was the only one to know that Charles could not propose marriage to the innocent Egg without committing the sin of bigamy. The murder of the Reverend and an innocent inmate of a psychiatric institution were both nothing more than a smoke screen to deflect attention away from the murder of the former best-man.

It was not unusual for Poirot to feel for the victims. It was not unusual for Poirot to feel enraged at the cavalier disdain some murderers showed for their victims. Even when a cornered murderer lashed out in panic and endangered Poirot’s life, it was still unusual for Poirot’s voice to shake and his chest to clench. The penalty for murder was hanging and Poirot himself had sent many a deserving man or woman to the gallows.

Charles blustered and then fell silent as Poirot revealed all the strands of his carefully planned murders. Egg drew away from Charles in horror and Poirot understood that Charles’ earlier sadness had been a burning loneliness and a desire for companionship. Charles knew he was defeated, and his head was bowed as the police led him away.

Poirot still had some words of comfort for the openly weeping Egg.  
“You fall down, huh?” asked Poirot kindly. “But you will get up again.”  
She nodded and her spine straightened at his words. It was not enough to make the world right, but those words might be enough to carry her a while before she caught her feet once more.

Poirot forced down the lump in his throat. He wished for once his little grey cells would grow forgetful and he could forget certain knowledge that had struck his heart like a heavy blow. He remembered contemplating the source of Charles’ sadness while Poirot had sipped a cocktail that might have been poisoned. For Charles had not planned to kill the Reverend but had simply poisoned one glass on a tray of many. It might have been Poirot that had taken the fatal sip and Charles had been at peace with that. He had been willing to watch his old friend Poirot die despite all their long years of friendship. Had Poirot’s friendship meant so little to him? Had Poirot himself been so disposable as to deserve his fate being left to random chance?

Poirot’s hands steadied. At his apartment, he knew a letter from the absent but ever-dependable Arthur Hastings would be waiting. Hastings had been hinting that he might be visiting England soon. Poirot resolved to invite him immediately. Poirot felt unsteady and in need of a rock to lean on – just until he caught his breath and could get up again.


End file.
